The Trail of Smoke
by hoenheim-of-light51
Summary: We're studying the holocaust in english class. Our assignement was to answer a series of questions in WHATEVER way we wanted! Betcha can't guess how I did? Could be considered post-movieish. EdxRiza kinda.


The Trail of Smoke

He found himself walking that familiar stretch of dirt towards his bunk. Above him was the moon, waxed to its fullest, illuminating the blood-stained camp, completely oblivious to the suffering below. From its position in the star-spotted sky, he judged the time to be midnight, maybe eleven-o-clock. Work in the field had run late this evening, and he could tell not only by the moon, but by the ache tormenting his entire body; it seemed no matter how weak they became, his muscles would always be able to feel strained.

Edward could say it had been a long time since he'd first entered the camp, but only by looking at his figure in one of the few reflective puddles of water that could be found about the camp. That was also how he judged the length of others' occupation here: The newest ones were lucky enough to have fat shielding the muscle-covered bones beneath their skin, the veterans had long-since had their fat consumed by their starving bodies, leaving their bones to stand-out prominently against taut, pale skin. Those here even longer could be found either in the infirmary, prostrate with disease, or being escorted by some faceless SS guard down a small path and out of sight, only to be seen again as a plume of black smoke, rising like a sordid omen into the sky.

He could call himself a veteran only because he saw the physical signs of this ordeal every day: His sunken eyes, visible bones, countless blisters, and head of very short, but steadily growing, blonde hair. Thankfully, he couldn't yet see the signs on his psyche, and he would do all he could to ensure he never did. After seeing human beings hung, shot, and whipped around you-or, in certain cases, _by _you-it would be very easy to go completely insane in this place. Even harder to deal with here was the numbness, the inability to feel anything for anyone that also served as a factor in the madness of those around him.

Then there was himself, whom he considered to be an exception to the uncaring and insane. He'd come into the concentration camp already knowing the pain of death, a little too-well, and thus was unaffected by the shell shock of its constant barrage in the camp: He became neither totally numb nor totally affected by it, so he was able to care, while keeping safe distance, without going crazy. It was this status as a self-proclaimed anomaly, he believed, that had kept him alive to this day.

This day, or night rather, was a rare one, in that he was awake and alone as opposed to asleep in the crowded bunks that lined the path to his left. He'd been ordered by a rather fat guard to lock the shed holding the rusty tools he and others used to plow the fields; while there had been a guard there to watch him during the process, afterward he'd been ordered back without an escort. Of course, the first thing that came to his mind was possible escape, but there _were_ still other guards about the camp, even if they weren't with him-several had questioned him already-and if he was caught, that would mean death. Besides, this solitude was still appreciated, even if it was within the barbed-wire-lined walls of a concentration camp, seeing as he hadn't experienced it since before the day he was jammed into the cattle car and driven here. The smallest hints of smile tugged at his lips, as he breathed in deeply and prepared to let it out in a sigh-

"Hey!"

Edward froze, breath catching in his throat. '_Great,'_ he thought. '_More questions.'_

There was a pause before the voice came again, "C'mere!"

Doing as he was instructed, Edward turned in the voices direction, and found it had him facing the dark space between two of the huts. There, he saw a faint ember, hanging in mid-air about five feet off the ground-the glow of a cigarette. Only upon seeing it did he finally smell the nicotine. He said nothing as he made his way towards the small red glow, and continued to be silent when he was standing next to it. The moonlight was hitting the opposite wall, so both he and the mystery questioner were in darkness.

"Yes, sir?" asked Edward, obediently.

"I'm not a _sir_, thank you!" was the response.

Edward paused, genuinely shocked; if it was a guard, they would've punched him, if it was a prisoner, they wouldn't have cared. So that must mean it was a mixture of both: A prisoner appointed to guard for who-knows why. "It's dark, alright?" he answered, relieved by his company, but still annoyed that they'd freaked him out.

The woman chuckled, a rare sound, "Right, right, sorry. Here."

A figure entered the moonlight, dressed in the SS uniform he knew so well, right down to the holstered gun at her side. Her hair was light blonde, her eyes a dark brown-one thing that had kept her from the title of Aryan-and in her slender fingers was the cigarette he'd seen in the darkness. As a guard, they fed her much better than usual prisoners, giving her the appearance of a newcomer, save for the weary look in her eyes. But perhaps the oddest thing about her was the smile gracing her lips; no one here smiled-ever. He knew right away she was like him: An exception.

"Number's 192538," she said. "But you can call me Riza."

"203751," he replied. "Edward."

Riza continued to smile at him, "Pleasure to meet you. Though I have to wonder why I'm meeting you at all."

"On the way back to my bunk."

"Unescorted?"

Edward shrugged.  
"Would you like one?" she flourished the white cylinder between her fingers. "Guarantee this will be your first and last chance."

Edward looked around before responding, "No thanks. It's hard enough staying alive in this place as it is."

At that, Riza couldn't help but laugh-it was a dark chuckle, resembling a cough more than a sign of mirth. "A cigarette isn't gonna kill you here, Edward."

"Even so…" he began softly. "I'm not risking my health over something so stupid. There's someone…waiting for me…"

Riza opened her mouth, but shut it slowly afterwards, unsure of what to say; in the silence, Edward leaned against the boards of the hut.

That someone was his younger brother who had managed to escape, even when Edward had not. The last time he'd seen him was the hour of their capture: They were after Edward because of his limbs-fake, making him "crippled"-but Alphonse had nothing to make him "inferior." So when the soldiers had invaded their apartment, he ordered his brother out the window; he'd known that his chances of escaping with his only family were slim, but still…he wouldn't allow anything to happen to his little brother, even if protecting him meant endangering his own life. He was sure that Alphonse was still alive, and that assurance was why he had to survive this place: He had failed to keep himself from getting captured, but he wouldn't fail in keeping himself alive-if only to see his brother again.

"You're lucky, you know," Riza murmured at length. "To have someone waiting for you…My father died when I was a little girl. And my mother and little sister…they went to the right…"

When a group of prisoners entered this camp, they were divided: Some went to the left, eventually reaching a barrack like the one Edward rested on, while others turned right. Down the path to the right were the "showers", as well as the large crematorium. It was no mystery to anyone why those going right were never seen again.

It was Edward's turn to be silent.

"Being taken from our house, only to end up in this hellish place…" she whispered to the moon. "Sure I'd heard about it before, but none of us were Jewish, so I thought we'd be safe. My first reaction was confusion rather than fear: I had no idea why they'd want to target us."

"And…do you have any ideas now?"

"Association," Riza spat in the dirt. "My late Grandmother and her husband were Jewish. Because of that, so were we."

Edward had heard of this before: Entire families would be sent to these camps because of the beliefs of only one member. It didn't matter that they didn't practice it; they were still Jews, and that meant they had to be destroyed.

"I'm sorry…" was all Edward could manage.

Riza shook her head, "I don't need pity…But thanks for thought, anyway."

The blonde boy grinned, "Nah…" Then a frown tainted his features, as he muttered, almost to himself. "It's odd…even after all that…I can't wish death on any of 'em."

"What?!" Riza coughed, shock obstructing her inhalation. "You're kidding, right?!"

The look he gave her was serious, "Their deaths won't bring any of those who've died already back to life. Our family is already dead, and killing even more won't do a thing but cause more hatred."

"That's the logical view," Riza replied. "But there's no logic when considering revenge."

"I don't believe in revenge: Killing someone, even if it seems like they deserve it, is wrong. Besides," he added in a chilling tone, "we're being held captive by murderers; do you wanna become just like they are?"

"It's not the same," she hissed, flinching.

"It doesn't matter what the reason is! Murder is murder!" his voice echoed softly. After pausing briefly to make sure only he and Riza had heard, he spoke again, with much quieter vocals. "Look, I think they should be punished for this as much as you do, but killing them isn't the way to go about it. Someday all this will be over, and on that day, they'll be faced with the anger and hatred of all those who survived what they did-even for the strongest man, that much loathing is hell to bear. They'll be living with that hate and their own guilt for the rest of their lives. That sounds like a far-worse punishment than dying to me."

Having said his peace, Edward placed his weight on the splintered wall behind him once more. Though Riza didn't know it, he'd been faced with the option of revenge many times, and had also felt a portion of the guilt he was previously describing. Maybe he was hypocritical, maybe he was just tired of being considered a murderer, but either way he'd meant what he'd said.

Riza tilted her head the slightest bit, intrigued by his logic, then she sighed. "You're an odd one, Edward; and yet, I'll bet that oddity is gonna leave you human by the end of this."

"Thanks Riza," Edward chuckled. "I think…"

Smiling gently, the two stared at each other. In the midst of all this suffering, neither of them could deny they wanted to get close to someone. In this place, the general attitude was every man for himself, but ironically, it seemed that no one could get through it alone; everyone was just too scared to get near anyone else because of what happened to them. Hunger drove them mad, hopelessness drove them to suicide, and their own guards drove them to the crematoriums. But that inexplicable desire for company drove some together-those who chose to embrace their wish for company, rather than deny it.

"You should probably get back. Take too long and you're in for it," Riza broke the silence at last.

"Yeah," he eased himself off the wall, "you're right."

Edward left the haven of his darkness, stepping into the moonlight not far from where he'd once stood. The road was still clear of anyone else, much to his relief. Once on the path, he turned back to the space between the hovels. Riza had moved back into the darkness; the only sign of her presence was the smoking glow of her freshly lit cigarette.

"My offer still stands," she said before he had a chance to move any further. "I've got too many of these for just myself."

Edward blinked, hesitating for a fraction of a second, then he turned his back to her, and spoke with a wave as he began to walk. "You know, I might just take you up on that. But you'll have to wait until we're free, Riza. And I'm sure that day will come…much sooner than you think."


End file.
